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Day's Work. Hedda is one of the few columnists in Hollywood who has a downtown (Hollywood) office and a number listed in the phone book. The anteroom might well be that of a dentist who had fallen into a cavity and never managed to climb out. With its bare radiators, scarred doors and desks, signed photographs and careless gadgets, the whole suite resembles an oldtime theatrical booking agency.
When Hedda walks into this shabby maelstrom at 9:30 in the morning, she sets the tone of the day's activities with a brisk "Good morning, slaves," to her staff, sweeps into her office, climbs into more comfortable shoes, and settles down to the morning mail and the notes prepared by her legman, a University of North Carolina Phi Bete named David ("Spec") McClure.
The phone begins trilling almost immediately. It is Joan Crawford, it is Orson Welles, it is Jerry Wald, it is Doris Day, it is Y. Frank Freeman (a Paramount vice president), it is Hedda's great friend Bing Crosby, it is every story "planter" in town. Hedda talks rapidly and constantly, hammering and wheedling angles out of reluctant stars, practically Claghorning the pressagents off the wire. At 11 she calls her secretary, Treva Davidson, and begins to dictate. It takes her about an hour and a half to do 800 words. Sometimes she does two or three columns in a day. Two or three days a week she takes off for the studios. If it is a personal interview, Spec goes along. Hedda does the talking; Spec takes the notes. Evenings, she is hard at work too—at some of the 50 parties a week she is invited to.
Visiting the sets, Hedda is usually a better show than what is going on in front of the camera. She is a great crowd-pleaser. Her radio warm-up is one of the phenomena of the business. Her personality, italicized by her manic hats, stimulates the autograph hounds. They fawn on her at the studio gates. "Oh, g'wan with you," says Hedda brusquely. "I'm not a celebrity."
But she knows she is, and she glories in it. Hedda once suggested on the air that interested listeners might design and send her some nice new hats. She received 65,000—none quite the equal of her latest, by Artist Chaliapin (see COVER). Louella Parsons never had it like that.
Fifty-Fifty. Hedda's ascent has created a serious problem for the studios. Once the question was: How do we make sure that Louella is the first to know? Now it has become: How do we manage to let Louella know first without getting Hedda hopping? Some publicity chiefs tried giving both girls the story at once. The result, neither would print it. Finally they tried doling out "scoops" on a nominal 50-50 basis (actually, Louella is given about 60%, and that is probably the clearest measure of her edge on Hedda).
The same meticulous protocol applies at banquets and in billing. Hedda and Louella must sit equidistant from the principal speaker. In advertising displays, the problem is impossible to solve by simple geometry. Top billing is better than bottom, and left is better than right; so it has become customary to reproduce only one woman's blurb at a time.